


What Pride Had Wrought

by SirLadySketch



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Again, Angst, Because pretty much all the Solavellan relationship is angst, Breakup scene, Cole's reactions to friends getting hurt, Dammit Solas, Dorian is a Good Friend, F/M, M/M, Solas breaks Lavellan's heart, post-Crestwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:33:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6135349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirLadySketch/pseuds/SirLadySketch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on the immediate aftermath of the Crestwood scene. Yay angst! (It's Solavellan, of course it's angst)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m beginning to get that ‘third wheel’ feeling,” sighed Dorian as he poked the fire for the fiftieth time that night. “Not that I begrudge the Inquisitor and her paramour their time alone, nor that I don’t appreciate them finding a place away from camp, but really, what’s the point of asking us to come along to chaperone if they’re going to order us to stay behind?”

“It’s safer to go in a larger group,” replied Cole, completely missing the sarcasm. The boy sat on the ground, playing with the wooden nug toy that Blackwall had carved for him. “Humans ears are weaker than elves'. They didn’t have to go far for us not to hear, so we can still help them if they need us. But he wanted someplace peaceful.”

“Yes, but it’s the principle of the thing, isn’t it?” He glared moodily at the fire, then glanced back to the pale boy. “You’re rather quiet tonight, Cole. Everything alright?”

“He’s afraid,” Cole replied, staring off in the direction the Inquisitor and Solas had gone. “She means everything to him, and he’s afraid he’s going to lose her.”

Dorian chuckled, standing up and stretching out the kinks from his limbs. He sighed in relief after an audible pop of joints cracking. “There’s little chance of that, I think. Our girl is tenacious and won’t be letting him off the hook that easily. I don’t think Solas realizes he’s past the point of escape.” He dropped his stick into the fire, then walked over to clap a hand on Cole’s shoulder. “I’m turning in. The lovebirds don’t need me, and you ought to be getting some rest, too. As you say, if they need us, they'll call.”

“I don’t need to sleep, not really,” argued Cole, looking up at Dorian at last. The mage sighed.

“Just try to respect their privacy, alright? I don’t need you coming into my tent and telling me what they’re thinking while they’re in the act. Not my concern, nor yours.”

“She’s never been so happy,” Cole said, ignoring Dorian’s reprimand.The boy smiled, staring off in the direction Solas and the Inquisitor had taken. “She’s knows that when the battle is done and we all go our separate ways, he’ll still be beside her. She’s building a new clan, taken the broken pieces and weaving something new, something stronger. _Tempting, teaching, turning, telling._ It’s different, but she likes it. It’s small for now, but they could make it grow.”

“I don’t need to hear about her repopulation efforts!” chided Dorian, standing up and heading towards his tent. “Unless there’s a dragon burning down the campsite, I don’t want you coming into my tent, understood?”

“But—“ 

“Good night, Cole!” interrupted Dorian, shutting the flap of his tent once and for all. Fortunately, Cole was getting better at listening to commands and picking up on clues, so although Dorian kept an open ear while he stripped out of his armor, Cole did not speak again. The boy was learning after all. He might be a spirit, but there was hope for him yet.

\--

Bull lay behind him on the bed, one hand draped over Dorian’s waist, the other flipping through reports from the Chargers. Dorian’s twined his fingers with Bull’s, feeling the rough calluses and smooth scars the warrior had earned in a lifetime of battles. Healing magic only went so far, and he’d never been very good at it. There was probably something telling about his character in the fact that he handled reanimated corpses more effectively than living flesh, but he wasn’t one to dwell on such things. 

Instead, he focused on the warm presence against his back, and shifted so that he pressed up against Bull’s vast expanse of chest.

“Aren’t you done with those yet?” he asked, his voice a little peevish. Really, how could Bull read reports in bed when he was there, naked and pliant, ready for another round?

Bull chuckled, tightening his grip on Dorian, hand snaking lower.

“Bored, Kadan?” Dorian could feel the rumble of Bull’s laughter, a deep, low tone that hummed against his backside. “I promised the Inquisitor I’d look over these reports before we set out tomorrow.”

“Set out? Where are we going?” Dorian asked, trying to remember if Remli had mentioned them going on another expedition. As long as it wasn’t the bog, and so long as Bull came along too, he didn’t much care where they went.

“We’ll be setting up the perimeter defenses against Corypheus’ forces here, here, and here,” replied Cullen, pointing to spots on the bed, except it wasn’t a bed, it was the war table, and the Inquisitor’s entire party was there, dressed to the gills and ready for battle. Except for him, of course. Dorian was still naked, stretched out on the table, not feeling particularly shy, just irritated that they’d been interrupted.

Remli came in then, and Dorian sat up at once, pushing himself off of the table and hurrying over to her side. Her entire left side was aflame with green fire, the anchor’s corruption bleeding through her veins and infusing her skin with a ghastly green pallor. She gave him a wan smile as he tried to stem the growing influx of magic, the barriers sliding away or getting absorbed into the roiling flames of the anchor.

“I can use this power to stop him,” she said, voice calm, sensible even. Solas stood behind her, hand clapped on her shoulder, but his eyes filled with the same green glow of the anchor's magic. Remli smiled, threading her fingers through Solas’, then she turned to Dorian, showing more teeth than usual. “Try not to get burned,” she warned him, and the flames began to lick at the edges of his wards, burning away the stone floor to reveal charred ashes and soil.

An agonized moan made him start, and Dorian snapped his attention back to the war table, staff at the ready, magic blazing. Cole sat on the broken earth, rocking back and forth, holding his sides and weeping. Dorian ran over to the boy, trying to soothe him, but Cole wouldn’t look up. 

“It hurts, it hurts, make it stop, it hurts and I can’t fix it. I don’t understand, why? _Why?_ It hurts, why does it hurt, it shouldn’t hurt like this, _why would you do it, why do you make it harder?_ It hurts and the only thing that would make it better makes it worse, _Biting, Bleeding, Bastard, breaking_ , I cannot-- don't ask that of me, it hurts too much and I can't stop it, why _why_?” and so on, his wails interspersed with wracking sobs and low, keening moans.

Dorian shivered as the boy wept, feeling a thrill of fear. He’d been dreaming, yes, but Cole never ventured into his mind before, not since Solas told the spirit that not everyone welcomed a visitor into their thoughts, no matter how much he wanted to help. Which meant that this was the real Cole, and that there was something terribly the matter.

“Cole!” he barked, trying to grab the boy’s attention once again. “Cole, I want to help you, but I can’t do it from here. Wake me up, and tell me what’s wrong!”

There was a momentary shudder, and the dream distorted, colors and light melting away to reveal the darkened interior of his tent. Cole lifted his head at last, and Dorian could see the tear streaks on the boy’s face despite the gloam. Dorian gestured to the small lantern to full brightness, then gripped Cole’s shoulders.

“Now, tell me, Cole, what’s the matter?,” he snapped, giving the boy a slight shake. “Is someone hurt? Where are they? What is going on? Is it the Inquisitor? Does she need our help?”

“I can’t fix it,” moaned Cole, tears pouring out of his eyes. “It hurts and I can’t fix it!”

“What hurts?” Dorian tried to avoid snapping at the boy again, taking in a deep breath to calm his nerves. He spoke slowly but in an urgent tone, as though speaking to a child. “Cole, did someone attack the Inquisitor and Solas? Can you lead me to them?”

Cole shook his head, taking in deep breaths, his lip trembling. “I can’t feel Solas any more,” he said, and Dorian’s eyes grew wide. They’d had their disagreements, but he’d never wished any harm on his fellow mage. Surely the elf couldn’t be...?

“What do you mean, Cole?” he tried, wishing he was better at prying the truth from the spirit, or that he knew how to ask the right questions.

“He won’t let me help, so the hurt is gone. I can’t feel it, but I know it’s still there. He won’t let me fix it, and he won’t let me near,” cried Cole, his voice taking on a slight whine. 

“He’s not dead, then? They’re not physically hurt?” Cole shook his head, and Dorian blew out a sigh of relief. “Good. We can work with that if he’s alive. Now, what of the Inquisitor? Can you find her?”

Cole wrapped his arms around himself again, his expression growing vacant as he searched for the Inquisitor. He slowly nodded his head, then scrubbed at his eyes.

“It’s dim now, but growing stronger again. I think she went where the Tranquil go and I couldn’t reach her, but she’s starting to feel again. It's getting brighter.” He stood up and gave Dorian a pleading look. “We need to be there before it comes back.”

Dorian grabbed his staff and satchel, throwing in a few potions and a bottle of liquor, just in case. That was about as much information as he’d be able to get from Cole, he knew, and it would be better to have the supplies and not need them then to show up empty handed and useless. 

They took off along the path, their steps quick and sure thanks to the moonlit trail. Cole took the lead, guiding Dorian up the mountainside. Dorian’s mind raced, half fogged with sleep and worry. Whatever had happened had emotionally numbed the Inquisitor to an extent that she appeared tranquil to Cole, which meant that she’d be in shock. Solas was well enough to tell Cole to mind his own business, apparently, so if the elf didn’t want to accept any help, Dorian would focus on the Inquisitor. Not for the first time, he wished he was better at dealing with the living than the dead.


	2. Remli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, Inquisitor's version.

The glen was silent, cool mist curling through the dappled moonlight the sifted through the leaves. Fireflies danced between the trees, and a pleasant breeze filtered through the forest, bringing with it the heady scents of summer blossoms and running water. The scene was almost like a dream with the press of the Veil so thin in this little cove, and with the ancient statues standing tall and proud to guard the way. 

A lone figure stood within the clearing, pale and wide-eyed, as though transfixed by the sight. Had anyone been there to take a closer look, they would see that those eyes were distant, and they would notice the slight tremble that shook the elf’s frame. The Inquisitor stood alone, arms wrapped tightly around her body, her lips forming silent words as if in prayer.

It was… she was… Solas had…

Remli stared unblinking at the entrance to the glen where Solas had retreated, no doubt returning to camp. He hadn’t bothered to look back, but she knew that he’d felt her gaze upon him as he walked away.

After he had…

She could not get the sentence to finish in her thoughts, her mind refusing to process what had taken place just a few… moments? Hours ago? She was dimly aware of the chill in the air, of the damp grasses that brushed against her calves, and of the mild fog that curled around her feet. They were vague, minor discomforts when compared to the creeping numbness that had clenched her heart, of the gut-wrenching shock that made the world turn a silvery grey as she lost focus of her surroundings.

How could he have done… what was he… _why?_

 _It hurt._ Gods, how it hurt. She squeezed her arms tighter about her, trying to will herself to move, knowing that if she did she would most likely fall. What happened? How could her entire world come crashing down around her in a few simple words?

_It will never happen again._

A cool wind whispered against her and she swayed into it, her hair brushing her face. Her now _bared_ face. He had taken her vallaslin, her heritage, her last tie to her clan, and… left. He called her beautiful, kissed her, made it impossible for any future except with him. 

And then he ended everything.

Her hand crept up to her brow, unable to feel any difference. She turned back to the waterfall, knowing she could check the pond’s reflection, but afraid of what she might see if she dared look. He called her beautiful… but he couldn’t love her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to wake up from this terrible dream. What she wouldn’t give to find herself in her chambers back at Skyhold, or back in the camp, wrapped in a coarse field blanket and laying on a sleeping mat with Solas’ warm presence behind her. She tried to will the sound of the waterfall to fade, for the chill to leave her bones, and for everything to stop hurting. 

Her instincts told her to run—simply disappear into the woods to find some small and lonely place where she could lick her wounds and figure out what to do next. They had come alone to this part of the forest, and it would be well into the morning before any scouts would be sent off to find her. It might’ve been over a year since she last went hunting alone, but she’d grown up in the woods, and she knew how to hide her steps from shem eyes.

Unfortunately, that fleeting thought was crushed under the weight of reality. She was the only one who could stop Corypheus, the only one who could finish repairing the rifts that kept popping up over Thedas. And even if she fled, Leliana had eyes and ears everywhere. Spies would know where to search for her, and how, and she would be herded back to Skyhold as a prisoner of her own people. And Solas… Solas had once told her that he could always sense her by using the anchor, no matter how well she managed to hide. Even if Leliana’s people didn’t find her, Solas would.

Whispers in the back of her mind mocked her for her childish thoughts, and she felt the cold as realization crept in. He’d left her because she had drunken from the Well, binding herself to Mythal’s will for all eternity. He’d removed the markings, but she still belonged to the goddess in body and soul, had willingly given herself up as tribute to gain the knowledge of her people. Hadn’t he always chided the Dalish in their attempts to preserve their culture? Little wonder that he couldn’t love someone who would willingly become a literal slave to her people’s heritage, even if she hoped doing so would save the world.

“Ah, good, there you are,” called a voice from the shadows, and she could hear Dorian huffing as he made his way through the tunnel. The mage panted as though he’d been sprinting a great distance, and paused a few steps behind her to catch his breath. When he started to speak again, it was with forced levity and a hint of relief.

“Cole appeared in my tent like an apparition out of a nightmare and told me that I needed to collect you immediately. Scared the boy half to death, I thought you’d been mauled by brontos or something. I’ll have you know that I was in the middle of a rather interesting dream, so I hope you appreciate… what... I… oh, careful now!”

She’d turned to him, stumbling a little as she forced her numb feet to move, and he raced forward, catching her as she swayed on her feet.

“Your face…” he murmured, eyes wide and fingers tracing lightly over the skin that had held Mythal’s symbols. His eyes hardened, and he gave her a cursory glance to see if she was injured, his hands steadying her as she shivered in front of him. “ What happened? Cole said you were hurting. Where the devil is Solas? Did someone hurt you? Who do I kill? Do you want me to beat them within an inch of their life so you can finish the job? Bull’s taught me some rather fantastic knots, we can try those out.”

She laughed, choking on the absurdity of it; Dorian, her mage in shining armor, swooping in to her rescue and offering bloodshed to make her feel better. She felt some warmth returning to her face, and it took her a moment to realize that it was tears running down her cheeks.

“Solas… Solas, he…” she trailed off, trying to figure out what to say. 

Left her? Well, obviously, as she was alone and he was not there. Didn’t love her? But he had called her Vhenan, which meant he still cared to some extent, even if he couldn’t love her anymore. He even looked as upset as she felt, but offered no explanations, gave no excuses. There’d been no signs. He’d been angry about the Well, but to break things off entirely? They’d always settled their differences through talking before. The evening had started out so well, she’d been completely blindsided by his abrupt abandonment. She was having trouble putting the pieces together, let alone putting those thoughts to words.

Dorian, however, had taken her stilted response in an entirely different way. His eyes narrowed, and he trailed his hands down her limbs, giving her a more thorough examination, trying to feel for broken bones, or injured flesh. 

“Did he hurt you?” the mage hissed, pulling back her sleeves to check her skin, and brushing away her hair to get a closer look at her face. “Did he do this to you?”

“What? No! Well, yes—to the second question, Dorian,” she stuttered, batting his hands away from her face. “He told me the history of the vallaslin, what they truly were, and I asked him to get rid of them. He offered, and I said yes.”

Dorian frowned, taking her jaw between his fingers and tilting her head back and forth, trying to determine if she was lying, and if she was in a state to recognize it. “And what were they, precisely?” he asked, voice curt.

“Slave markings,” she said, taking in a deep breath, trying to refocus. “He said they were meant to mark property of nobles to curry favor with the gods. I might be bound to Mythal because of the Well, but I am no one’s slave.”

“Quite,” Dorian agreed, still preoccupied with her unmarked forehead and the dried tracks of tears on her cheeks. He frowned, rubbing a thumb gently over her skin. “And this distressed you? Cole was a bit fuzzy on details on what actually happened, and apparently Solas isn’t talking.”

She gulped, trying to control the sudden hitch in her breath, and she ducked her head, squeezing her eyes shut.

“I don’t know what happened,” she whispered, staring at the ground and willing herself not to cry. She knew that she should be angry that he’d led her on for so long, waiting until she’d fallen head over heels for him before he crushed her heart for no reason, no explanation. She wanted to feel that fury, to stand tall and spite him, showing him that she was unaffected by his betrayal.

As it was, she shook in front of Dorian, head bowed, fists clenched, body trembling with suppressed sobs.

“He said he couldn’t love me any more,” she managed at last, voice tight and high pitched with the effort of spitting out the words. She brought the heels of her palms up to her eyes, trying to press back the tears. If she let them fall, let herself come undone, she wasn’t sure that she could pull herself back together.

“What?” asked Dorian, grabbing her hands to pry them away from her face so he could look at her. “What?” he asked again when he succeeded. She stared at him, shaking her head as to say she didn’t understand either.

“He said he’d been distracting me f-from my d-duty and tha-at he wouldn’t let it h-ha-appen ag-gain,” she choked, prying her hands away from Dorian to scrub furiously at the treacherous tears that managed to fall. Dammit, there was no stopping them.

“ _Kaffas!_ ” Dorian wrapped and arm around her and tucked her against him, rifling through one of the pouches on his belt to find a handkerchief. She turned into his shoulder, giving up all pretenses and sobbing, unable to assemble coherent sentences. Ah yes. The mighty Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, reduced to a snotty mess of tears because she’s been dumped.

After a few minutes of Dorian’s somewhat frantic attempts to calm her down, she managed to get the full story out between heaving sobs. Dorian remained beside her, keeping her tight against him as she relayed the night’s events. When she was done, he let go of her briefly to rummage through his pack, straightening once he’d found the bottle he was looking for.

“D-dragon’s Blood?” she asked through hitched breaths when he offered it to her. Dorian blinked and looked at the bottle in surprise.

“I didn’t realize that’s what I’d brought, damn. Best not, maybe—not yet, anyway. Let’s get you back to camp first, then we can get drunk together and talk about the scoundrels who break our hearts.”

This made her start crying again, and Dorian sighed, gripping the stopper with his teeth and pulling it free. It would be a long night, and he doubted he’d be able to get to sleep, even if he managed to get her settled down. He spat out the cork and took a deep swig, shuddering as the fire filled his belly.

“I always forget how terribly foul this stuff is. Come on, let’s get moving,” he half-dragged, half-carried her back to camp, helping her stumble along the path. The scout was waiting for them by the fire, and stood to attention as Dorian practically hauled the Inquisitor over his shoulder and into the camp. He shook his head to stave off the worried woman’s concerns, then guided Remli into his tent. 

He paused to give the other tent in the clearing a hard stare, wondering if Solas was within, and weighing the pros and cons of setting the damn thing on fire, preferably with the other mage still inside. A soft sniffle from within his own tent made him refocus, however. Inquisitor first, Solas later. He had a few choice words for the apostate.

Before he ducked in, he chewed his lip, then gestured the worried scout over.

“Be a dear and put a kettle on, would you?” he asked. “I think some strong tea might be in order.”

“Is my lady ill?” asked the woman, face pale and eyes wide with fear. Dorian kept his sigh in check. It was little use to explain that even people blessed with divine help—not that he thought there was really any evidence of that rot—suffered from the same grievances as mere mortals. Instead, he gave her a tight smile.

“Rather heartsick I’m afraid. The Inquisitor will be staying with me tonight, and we’ll strike back for Skyhold as soon as she’s feeling up to it. Mind seeing to the tea? There’s a love,” he said, then ducked into his tent before the woman could ask more questions.

Remli sat on the bedroll, staring at the crumpled square of fabric in her hands.

“Haven’t you ever been dumped by a boy before?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood. She slowly nodded, although the memory of it made her curl in on herself even more.

“After he learned I couldn’t give him children,” she mumbled, tightening her grip on the cloth. Dorian cursed under his breath. He hadn’t meant to open up an old wound, and he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to deal with that sort of emotional trauma. If only one of the others was here to help, they’d know what to say. Varric would have some witty story to get her laughing again, or Cassandra would break everything down with the clinical eye of a Seeker, examining motives and getting to the bottom of things. Or Cole. A spirit of compassion would be ideal for this situation. Where the devil had he gone?

Of course, the only one who could really fix this would be Solas himself, but thinking of the mage only darkened Dorian’s mood further. Best not dwell on Solas for the time being.

“Well,” he sighed, sitting on the bedroll across from her and taking her hands in his. He squeezed them gently and gave her a wry smile. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that all men are cads, and sometimes you’re better off without them.”

This earned him a hollow laugh, followed by another bout of crying. He left briefly to collect the tea from the scout, then settled down again, pouring out a cup and offering it to the Inquisitor. Remli sniffed, trying to clear up her face a bit before she took a sip.

“I just don’t understand,” she said sometime later, once she couldn’t squeeze out any more tears. Her eyes and nose were red and blotchy, her hair looked a mess, and her body sagged with exhaustion. The teapot was long since gone, and the bottle of dragon’s blood sat between them, half-empty. She took another sip, shuddered, and passed it back to him. She started to slur her words, although she still seemed alert as ever. 

“I don understand,” she repeated, nestling deeper into the blanket cocoon he’d wrapped her in. “It just doesn make sense. Does it make sense?” He shook his head, knowing there really wasn’t much more to be said that hadn’t been said already, but also knowing that she’d be asking herself these questions for many long nights ahead. “Doesn make sense,” she agreed in a slur, then clutched at the bottle again. She stared at it, raised it, lowered it without taking a drink, placed it on the roll beside her.

“He’s a fucker,” she said—or at least, that’s what he thought she said. It came out more as “heesavucker,” but he’d had enough practice with Bull and the Chargers to learn how to interpret drunken ramblings. She sniffed, swiping at her nose with the back of her hand in a terribly unladylike gesture. “But I love him,” she mumbled. He sighed. He could agree with the first declaration, at least. 

“I think it’s time you tried to get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning—“ that earned him a look—“well alright, no, you’ll feel utterly dreadful tomorrow and you’ll probably want to smash some things and you’ll be perfectly within your right to do so. But you need to get some rest if you want to be able to use your daggers, and I need to sleep off some of that ale if I’m to be your resident shield generator for the immediate future.”

She blinked and looked around as though noticing for the first time that they were in his tent. That they’d been there for more than three hours didn’t matter; it was hard to focus on your surroundings when your whole world’s come crashing down.

“I don’t think I can make it to my tent,” he interpreted from the watery sentence that spilled out of her mouth. He gave her a sympathetic smile.

“I’m feeling rather magnanimous tonight. You’ll be staying with me,” he informed her. This earned him a lop-sided grin.

“You’re just trying to get me into bed,” she said, or something to that effect, and he laughed with relief. Humor was a good sign—or it was until her face crumpled as she remembered some private conversation, no doubt with the undeserving object of her affections, and she listed sideways to curl in on herself, crying again. 

Dorian scrubbed his face, sighed, and patted her arm before he moved to find a comfortable position beside her. It had been a long, terrible night, and the next day would be even worse.

 

It had to be near dawn by the time Remli finally cried herself to sleep.

Dorian was unused to holding someone of such a smaller stature in his arms, but he offered what comfort he could, embracing her and patting her arm, rubbing soothing circles on her back all the while telling her in Tevine the terrible things he was going to do to her former lover when he got his hands on him. It was just as well that she’d begged to stay the night with him; if he wasn’t so busy providing a shoulder to cry on, he’d be hunting down a certain damned apostate and flaying the man alive. 

Perhaps it was for the best that he didn’t see Solas until he’d had a chance to cool down a bit. Or before he had a chance to speak with the others to see if they wanted to have a turn showing the mage what for. If he was still feeling particularly vindictive, maybe he’d enlist Leliana’s help as well. 

A noise drew his attention to the corner of the tent, and a pale figure nearly glowed in the dim light. Cole sat hunched up, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. His eyes were wide and red, and his mouth turned down in a frown. A kicked puppy couldn’t look more dejected.

“Are you angry with me, Dorian?”

“What?” He asked blearily, scrubbing away the sleep from his eyes. For a moment, Dorian wasn’t sure he’d heard the boy correctly. “Why on earth would I be angry with you?”

“There wasn’t a dragon,” replied Cole, meek and sorrowful. Dorian blinked a moment, trying to figure out what the boy was talking about. Then he remembered his warning earlier that evening, before the whole bloody world imploded and he’d spent five hours comforting the Inquisitor. He blew out a sigh.

“No, Cole, I’m not angry,” he answered. Remli shifted in her sleep and whimpered, and he tightened his grip on her. “I’m not angry with you,” he corrected. “You did the right thing, coming to me. She needed us, and it’s thanks to you that we got there in time.” Cole sighed, regardless.

“I just want to help, but I can’t,” was the plaintive reply. 

“Don’t we all,” muttered Dorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a minor adjustment to the length of this story-- a Solas-centered chapter accidentally wrote itself while I edited this one, because apparently the Internet needs more angst and that's all I'm capable of at the moment. Whoops.


	3. Solas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas POV post-Crestwood. Brought to you by a now-dead laptop and Sarah Mclachlan SPCA ads (to get you in the mood)

Of late, his thoughts had turned to Felassan.

Solas sat on an overturned skiff at the edge of the lake, watching the gentle waves crash upon the shore and listening to the cry of night gulls that sang out along the water’s surface. It was a soothing place for one to think, a quiet place, away from the sounds of human habitation, and, more importantly, away from camp. One could easily empty his mind and heart by simply focusing on his surroundings.

Of course, nothing was ever simple.

Felassan had been a good man, honest and true and steadfast in his beliefs, all the way to the end. Over those final months, the agent had tried to explain this new world, to give him some warning, to make him see why this place should be saved. Why these people mattered. How Fen’Harel could use his knowledge of the ancient past to help the remaining elves rise again, to take back their rightful place as rulers of the land. 

_‘They’re stronger than you think.”_ It was true, Briala had been a promising player in the Game, although in the end she’d failed to garner the influence necessary to make her bold stand against the humans. The elven woman had realized that her best course of action would be surviving while the humans killed each other off, and so she sank back to the shadows to wait. He had been forced to personally seize control of the eluvians from her when it became apparent that she would press the resistance no further. 

The Inquisitor herself had seemed a promising replacement where Briala fell short. Lavellan had been willing to listen to his suggestions, even came up with her own solutions to help her people without his whispers in her ear. Promising, that is, until he’d compromised the mission by slipping into a more intimate role than planned or anticipated. Promising, before it became increasingly apparent that the world was beyond saving through subtle maneuvering, even when he was there to personally supervise the actions of world leaders. 

The world was in a crisis, and the elves could only hope to rise again if the world was made anew by tearing down the old order. If they were as strong as Felassan had claimed, they could survive the purging flames and come away the better for it. But still, his agent had advised him to reconsider. That final night, Felassan came to plead with Fen’Harel one last time, begging him to hold back the arrow that would slay this monstrous world. The agent had outright disobeyed a direct order in the interest of helping the remnant elves. 

In the end, Felassan’s death was just more blood on his already saturated hands. 

In Solas’ defense, no amount of telling would have convinced him, newly awakened as he was, that there was any depth to these pitiful creatures who walked the earth. They were so weak, so helpless, so _less_ than the ancient elves had been. Was it worth saving such creatures, those who held onto life for such a brief and tentative span of time? Who slew each other and were slain in kind over squabbles for the dead earth, poisoning the world with their hollow religions and petty cruelties? Surely, weakened though he was, his coming would be a blessing to the world, the necessary flame to burn away the poisons and make way for a new, better kingdom. A new, brighter Arlathan for his people, once the evanuris had been taken care of. 

But _she_ would not be in that world. 

If he was being perfectly honest with himself, he would lose her one way or another anyway. As a hero of her age, she was statistically more likely to fall in some dire battle than to live to old age—he remembered the names of his fallen comrades from those ancient wars, and he’d read the modern legends of literary figureheads. She’d nearly been slain outright when the humans pulled her from the pit at the Conclave, and some still resented the idea that their Maker would choose an elf to lead humanity to glory. Elf or human, however, Death came to all heroes in the end. 

Even if she escaped such a fate on the battlefield, death would claim her regardless, creeping to her bedside like a coward in the night. With the Veil in place, she’d been born mortal to a long line of mortal ancestors whose lives were but a brief passing of time. In his youth, he’d spent the equivalent of several of their lifetimes weaving spells meant to mimic the expanse of a starry sky for idle amusement. Time had held no true meaning for him. Now, if he closed his eyes, he might open them to find her long gone, her body turned to dust and lost to the winds. 

Or, he could continue on with his plan, break down the Veil and leave her infused with magic. There might be a chance that the unbridled power unleashed upon the world would awaken the trace immortality that ran through elven blood, and she might very well become everlasting. But what would a mortal mind, bred to accept a mortal lifespan, do with all of that extra time? If Corypheus was any indication, madness would set in, and he’d rather see her dead than reduced to a husk of her former self. 

Even in the best of scenarios, one where she forgave him and stood by his side through the trials ahead, where they might try to make some life for themselves in the new world they created-- he could not see a happy ending. He loved her, but he would rather have her live out whatever time she had left living a normal life—as normal as one in her position could live, at least. A life with him might have its happy, stolen moments, but they would be few and far between, and he would not ask her to play a part in the regretful duties that lay ahead. 

Ah, how Felassan would laugh. 

Here he sat, smitten with a child of the world he vowed to destroy simply because it existed as a result of his actions. Unable to pretend that the survivors were nothing more than pale shades to be erased from the earth; Unable to deny that they were, in fact, strong and worthy of life. Too invested in fixing his mistakes to consider how his future actions might cause even greater travesties upon his people. The fact that he’d seriously considered abandoning everything he’d worked for to keep her by his side proved how severely he’d miscalculated when it came to dealing with these people. 

Walking away from her and all that a life with her promised had been the most difficult decision he’d ever made in all his many years. 

Felassan would call him a fool, and he would be hard pressed to argue the point. 

It was then that he sensed Cole—a tentative flutter of magic brushing against his wards, a shy hello between souls before the spirit backed off. Solas had spoken to him earlier, warding him off and directing him to help the Inquisitor instead, and the spirit had disappeared, giving him enough time to gather his thoughts and suppress his emotions. 

“Cole,” he said, voice calm and distant. The spirit took a few tentative steps forward, then shied over to a rock, half-hiding. Solas sighed and closed his eyes, turning back to stare out over the lake. “I would prefer to be alone, my friend.” 

“You are sad,” said the spirit from behind his hiding place. 

“Yes,” agreed Solas, focusing on the waves far across the lake. Really, what more was there to say? 

“I can’t feel you, but I could before you locked it away,” said Cole. He spoke slowly, as though testing the words for truth as he said them aloud. “It hurt, but you think that you deserve it. You’re sorry for what you did.“ 

“I regret causing the Inquisitor pain, yes,” agreed Solas again. He blew out his breath, forcing himself to speak evenly. “Among other things. I should not have let it go so far. I never meant to hurt her.” He glanced back at Cole, giving the spirit a tight smile. “She could use some Compassion, I think.” 

Cole would not understand—or rather, he would understand just enough to try fixing the problem on his own, and there was no telling what those actions would be. Cole was a spirit of emotion, unpredictable and passionate. Cole would see two lovers hurting by the distance between them, and would simply do whatever he could to bring them back together. 

Solas was unsure if the spirit would understand the more complex reasons behind his actions. He could try to explain why he had to do what he had done, but Cole would simply press the issue until love turned to hate, or until Solas’ defenses wore thin. Neither was an optimal solution, given his plans for the future. 

Still, Solas’ agreement seemed to bolster Cole’s confidence. Feeling a little braver now that he was on more familiar ground, the spirit crept closer, his magic brushing against Solas’ senses once again, a tentative, searching touch. The spirit withdrew again almost immediately, but the mage strengthened his wards all the same. 

“Cole,” he chided, a little sharper than he’d meant to be. He softened his tone, closing his eyes and clamping down further on his emotions. Cole would not understand, and it would be unkind to snap at him for only doing what was in his nature. Any fault would be with Solas, and he needed Cole to understand that, at least. He tried again, “I am not safe company right now, my friend. I would not have my emotions distort your being. You would be safer if you sought out the Inquisitor and left me alone with my thoughts.” 

He had seen Wisdom fall to the follies of mortals afraid of bandits. What would his own emotions, left unchecked and dark, do to Cole? He would not allow himself to sorrow, for he would not see Compassion crumple into a demon of Despair. 

A gentle touch startled him from his thoughts, and the spirit’s thin arms wrapped around him. The boy pressed a cheek against his back, and clung to the front of Solas’ tunic. 

"Cole?” he asked, turning his head to look over his shoulder. The spirit shifted and looked up at him, eyes wide. 

“Am I doing it wrong?” he asked, tilting his head up to meet Solas’ gaze. “I haven’t done it before. Usually it’s whispers and feelings, a word here, a touch there, and the hurt is eased. Things take care of themselves, the hurting grows less sharp, more distant. But I can’t read you, so I can’t tell if I’m doing it right.” 

“I am not sure what you are trying to do, Cole,” answered Solas, frowning a little at the spirit’s uncharacteristic bluntness and actions. The spirit’s grip tightened. 

“In the Fade, that place was wrong, but there were pieces of truth scattered on the ground. Your stone said dying alone,” explained Cole. He frowned, as though he was putting together some very difficult ideas. “But when you are dead, your soul doesn’t care about being alone anymore, because it goes beyond. It doesn’t make sense, unless you mean the moments before your death, when you can still feel afraid and sad. That would mean you would still be alive, but that you’re afraid that no one will be there when you die. So your stone should have said ‘living alone.’ If you are afraid of living alone at the time of your death, you would be sad to be alone at other times, too.” 

Solas laughed, feeling a part of his armor slip. How carefully the spirit had worked out such things in such a logical way, and yet still missed the meaning of the words entirely. He gave Cole another tight smile, remaining still in the spirit’s awkward embrace. Instead of trying to explain the difference, however, he asked his original question again, modified to clarify his intent. 

“Why did you seek me out?” 

“I could feel your thoughts before you told me to stop,” replied Cole, looking away at last, embarrassed that he’d looked at something he was not supposed to see. “I can’t feel you, but I know you are sad. You aren’t dead, but you don’t want to be alone. I can’t help a hurt I can’t feel, but feeling can help. _A gentle hand, a warm smile, it’s not enough but it has to do for now_ —Dorian is with the Inquisitor now.” 

“Good. That is… good,” replied Solas, closing his eyes and bowing his head. It was good that Dorian should be there. To provide her comfort when he could not. The Tevinter mage had a tactful bluntness that she would need—someone who would not lie to make her feel better, someone who would not leave her confused and dazed and looking for all the world like a lost soul on the brink of collapse. 

She would need love and tenderness, everything he wished he could give her himself but no longer dared. He swallowed, thinking of stolen kisses and shared warmth beneath coarse woolen blankets. Of winter evenings spent in companionable silence by the fire, with surprise books and lingering touches and quiet laughs between shared secret moments. Gone, now. Simply memories to cherish and remember as he walked his dark path. 

He wanted to ingrain the memory of her to his thoughts, the way she listened so attentively when he spoke of the Fade, and how she always wanted to know more. How she felt and tasted, how she loved him and made no attempts to hide it. How she’d pleaded for answers, for him to reconsider, and how she’d seemingly accepted his abandonment of her as her lot in love and life. Would her face turn to anger and disgust when she learned the truth of who and what he was? Would she grow to hate him, even as his love for her remained? Worse, would she still love him, despite all the destruction and ruin he would bring? Cole tightened his hold. 

“I felt that,” the spirit said, even as Solas forced himself to clear his mind and clamp down on the emotions again. Cole released his grip on Solas’ tunic to pat the elf on the shoulder. “I am Compassion. I heal Sorrow and Despair—you can’t hurt me like that.” 

When Solas said nothing, Cole sighed once again, trying to carefully explain what he was doing. “A touch is a good way to remember that there is someone else there, even if you can’t see them,” he explained, ignoring the hitch in Solas’ breathing. “You can’t see me since I’m behind you, and I can’t see you, since you won’t let me look. But I can do this.” 

"I…thank you, Cole.” 

Cole was silent, resuming his embrace. Nothing more needed to be said, for they understood one another perfectly. Instead, Cole kept his grip firm and comforting, and he held Solas as the mage cradled his head in his hands and wept. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm... not 100% happy with how this turned out-- I think it needs to be more sad. Ideas?


	4. HalamVehnan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas arrives back at Skyhold, and knows it's the beginning of the end of everything.

He made the trip back to Skyhold alone.

Once Cole returned to the Inquisitor and Dorian, Solas was anxious to be on his way-- not to flee, per se, but to put more of a distance between the others and himself, both physically and mentally. His decision to end his relationship with the Inquisitor had sparked the beginning of the end of his time with the Inquisition, and he knew that he must make the best use of the time that remained to further remove himself from their lives.

He meant to make a clean break of it once the orb was back in his possession. Better to be done with it, once and for all, than to linger and allow doubts to fester as peace settled in. And he knew those doubts would come. With Corypheus defeated, the eyes of the Inquisition would quickly turn elsewhere, and there would be questions to which he could not--would not-- give answers. Better for him to disappear entirely before they thought to ask. In distancing himself in spirit, few would think to look for him when he slipped away for good.

It surprised him when he realized how long that retreat would actually take.

For all his efforts to remain apart from these people, these blinkered mortals with their shallow visions and their brief lives, there were little signs of his cohabitation with them all over the hold. His agents would have to clear up the mementos of his time among these mortals, the trace evidence that in his efforts to understand them and gain their trust, he had broken his resolve to think of them as a means to an end. To see them as unworthy of his attentions.

The books would be the first to go. To leave the mortals with copies of ancient Elvhen tomes-- even untranslated as they were-- was far too dangerous a risk. There was a stack by the chair in Dorian’s little library nook, books his agents had uncovered and which Solas had given to his fellow mage under the guise of friendship. They were meant to gauge the human’s understanding of the workings of the magical world-- Dorian himself boasted of his clever mind and his flexibility in adapting to magical theories. After traveling and fighting by the man’s side, Solas had seen enough to know that those boasts were not unwarranted.

A man who learned how to bend time to suit his needs could be a new threat lurking on the horizon, even if he had sworn never to replicate the spell again. But Dorian might be able to invent some subtle spellwork to use against Corypheus, and through their conversations along the road, Solas had grown to respect the man who was willing to admit (when pressed) his shortcomings. Perhaps he could leave the books in the mage’s care-- for the time being.

In other quarters, there were other items that would need to disappear. Other items that could be easily retrieved by agents and written off as misplaced, little everyday things to replace and forget. When Blackwall lost his enchanted whetstone, a base replacement would serve well enough. If Varric found that a cat had rent his enchanted quill to pieces, well, it simply meant the ink jar would need more frequent refills.

The little ointments that lined the shelves of the medical wingo did not need to be removed-- the staff had long since learned how to make the mixtures without his aid, and it would be an unkindness to remove that small comfort from the suffering wards. The original recipe pages with the alchemist’s name were long since forgotten, buried under the mountains of snow and rock at Haven. He could leave the mortals with that, at least.

Even the gardens betrayed his influence. In a moment when his heart overcame his better sense, he had cultivated a small patch of starflowers: tiny, glittering, living gems that fed on magic leaked from the Fade through tiny cuts he tore in the Veil. He’d brought them to the Inquisitor, remarking on how they must have been dormant while the keep decayed, coming back to life once mages returned to the ancient halls. He did not tell her that they could not exist without the spark of a mage knowledgeable in creating such trivialities, and Cole, blessedly, had only remarked upon how well they sat upon her hair. Solas did not know how long it would take the flowers to fade when he was gone. It made little difference.

Still, these were little physical reminders of his time among them, and when he left their losses would not be noted. Ironically, in his efforts to avoid emotional entanglements, his absence and the cessation of his interactions with people around the keep would be the most noticeable change going forward.

Over the last year and a half, he had cultivated his network of spies through a series of daily conversations with the keep’s inhabitants. People would notice an abrupt alteration or complete abandonment of the routine habits he’d developed. And of late, how often had he truly been apart from the Inquisitor? A few hours, at best. Even the dullest of minds would take note of such an unexpected variation in behavior.

Fortunately, his efforts to build a studious, reclusive reputation would work in his favor-- he’d claim some research project required his absolute focus. The falling out with the Inquisitor… well, he wasn’t quite sure what excuse he could give, and damn it, he didn’t owe an explanation to anyone. That wasn’t true, he knew-- he owed her an explanation but he couldn’t tell her the truth, and he wouldn’t lie to her, not to her, so he would say nothing when pressed, and damn those who would try delving into his intimate affairs.

Silence would be his greatest weapon. By cloistering himself away, deep in his studies, people would soon stop questioning why he no longer engaged in lively debates with the archivist, or why he rarely left the rotunda in the company of others. They might even stop asking what had happened between the Inquisitor and himself, although he knew that question would never be far from her mind.

Of course, bit by bit, the keep would adjust to his distance and curt replies. In truth, the most challenging part of this enforced separation would be readjusting to hours spent without speaking to another soul. He had forgotten how lonely solitude could be. He dared not dwell on the ache in his chest when he thought of the silent nights ahead of him.

 

He arrived at Skyhold with every intention of putting his plan into immediate effect. They were near the end of their fight against Corypheus, and in a few weeks time he will be gone, walking the Fade with his orb in hand and tearing down the Veil to set things right once again. In a few weeks time, the world as they knew it would come to an end.

Although it was early morning, there were some familiar faces about. Walking past the courtyard, he ignored the greetings of Cassandra and Bull as they took a break from sparring. He refused to raise his eyes when he felt Vivienne’s gaze upon his back, and walked swiftly past the Inquisitor’s advisors as they made their way towards the War Room, ignoring their curious glances. He gave Varric a minute nod of acknowledgement, but only because he knew the dwarf would follow him in and harangue him with questions if he did not give some sort of response.

And there would be questions, and they would not be satisfied with his refusal to give them proper answers. However, he was no stranger to cold shoulders, and he could abide in their disfavor for whatever little time he remained in their company. Better that they hated him now, so that they were not so utterly surprised or betrayed when he worked against them to bring about their ends.

All these things and more he could do-- must do-- to prepare for the end of his stay with the Inquisition. He would endure what time remained in preparation of what was to come, he would stand unflinching amidst their disdain and anger and fear. He could detach himself from the workings of the Inquisition. He could slip away, unseen and unnoticed when the time came.

He could not bring himself to enter her quarters.

In truth, he had few things in her chambers that he needed to reclaim. Out of necessity, he kept little in the way of personal possessions, and even in the happy months he’d lingered within her rooms, the Inquisitor’s chambers held very few items that were specifically his. Extra clothing and toiletries, a book of charcoal sketches, the little tins of sweets she left him when she was called away on duties where he could not follow. There were the magic primers he’d annotated for her to better understand the power she wielded, and glyphed stones for making baths in the wilderness more tolerable. Little things, easily carried down in a single trip.

He sank back against the door to the main hall, hiding in the relative privacy of the entryway. He should open the door and go upstairs. Go to her room and collect his things and then be done with it. Go now before there was a chance of running into the others when they came back. He could Fade-step, no one would have to see him.

He slunk along the walls and exited through the doors leading to the parapets instead.

The Inquisitor and the others were likely still a few days behind him, and his body ached from the hard pace he’d set. He was too weary to face the multitude of little tasks set out before him, and really, he would not be handling them personally, so a few more hours would not make much of a difference. He needed the quiet of his quarters to rest and refocus. In sleep, he could find his people in the Fade. In sleep, he could focus on what needed to be done.

His agents would need to begin the next stage of their assignments, those who were not already in place. There were sentinels to approach, new pacts and alliances to be made within the secrecy of the Fade. If he found one of the maidservants in sleep, he could send her to the Inquisitor’s room to remove and destroy what he could not bring himself to touch.

Even now, he imagine sinking into the rough cot he’d claimed those many months ago. The tidy room with its broken walls and open-air ceiling. He wondered if someone had come in to care for his plants, or if the room would smell of dust and disuse. How long had it been since he’d truly spent any time here, outside of handling private matters and looking for supplies? The last time he’d been in here, she’d come to him to wait out a storm. Would she come again, now?

Best not to think on it. What was done was done. He braced himself with a deep breath of cold air before opening the door. But he’d forgotten that Compassion is often shown in small, meaningful ways, and his steps faltered in the doorway.

Cole was in his room, the boy’s face pale and eyes red. The spirit must have found some path in the Veil that allowed him to slip ahead of the others, to go where he was needed when Solas could not turn to anyone else for help.

A small mountain of items were piled on the rickety bed, far more things than Solas would have imagined possible. He recognized some of them, yes, but there were several inexplicable articles mixed in with his things. Cole sat surrounded by these treasures, his knees drawn up and his chin resting on folded arms. Solas paused for a moment, then quietly shut the door behind him, lighting the candles with a wave of his hand as he made his way into the cold room.

“You continue to surprise me, Cole,” he said, carefully setting his supplies down by the small dresser and resting his staff in the corner by his bed. Cole watched him through doleful eyes, curling in on himself, unwilling to respond. “Thank you for this kindness.”

Cole said nothing, burying his face in his arms and drawing into himself more tightly. Solas sighed, knowing that this was as close to a reprimand that the spirit would give him, and he only hesitated a moment before walking to the bed and clasping Cole on the shoulder with a gentle but firm squeeze. Then, he turned his attention to sorting away the items piled on the bed.

Solas pulled the clothes from the piles and carefully began to fold them, setting them aside to place back into the room’s small dresser. His hands hesitated when he found a pale, silken slip of fabric tangled within one of his shirts, then he pulled it out of the pile, gently, as though he worried that the silk might tear under rough handling.

“This is not mine, Cole,” he chided the spirit, but Cole looked at him through baleful eyes.

“Fingers trailing over the soft hues, _‘Do people actually spend this sort of money for so little fabric? I could feed my clan for half a year on this.’_ An amused laugh, a pat on the shoulder-- ‘ _That’s terribly modest by court fashions, my dear. Treat yourself to something a bit more daring.’_ She’s not sure and she thinks it’s silly, but she buys it anyway and slips it on when your back is turned. She likes the way you freeze, trembling limbs and flushed cheeks, your hand upon her back and the heat of you against her skin as you peel away the fabric and--”

“Cole, those are private moments between the Inquisitor and myself. Such things should not be spoken of out loud,” Solas reprimanded, and Cole sighed, giving his shoulders a shrug.

“When she sees the fabric she thinks of you, and then it goes back to the woods, and then it will hurt again. It was a secret for you-- not even Vivienne knew she bought it,” explained Cole, and Solas gave a quiet, broken laugh at that.

Cole tilted his head, eyes narrowed, and he peered at Solas as though squinting made it easier to read someone’s thoughts. Solas had wards in place-- would always have wards in place, now, he could not afford a misspoken word here-- so he knew that Cole could not read his emotions, but apparently Varric’s attempts to teach the boy social cues were working. Cole’s eyes widened and he sat back on his haunches, his mouth opening in surprise.

“...Bringing these things here hurt you too,” said Cole, his voice high and tight. He scrambled off the bed, gathering the items that were integrally linked to moments of joy and happiness that would now bring only pain. Cole scooped up the little trinkets into his arms, trying to pile them high while shielding them from Solas’ view. “I’m sorry!” he cried, “I made it worse. I meant to help but I made it worse again! I’ll take them away so you can forget.”

Solas placed a comforting hand on Cole’s arm, calming the boy. “A wound hurts when the skin is raw, Cole, but pain eventually fades with the passage of time. These little hurts will fade as well-- and they can even bring back remembered joy, in time.” Solas sighed, then handed Cole a bottle of scent. “But perhaps some of them could disappear for a bit so those wounds have a chance to heal.”

They spent the next few moments in silence, Solas quietly sorting through the odds and ends that Remli had apparently linked so closely to him (a nug skin pouch? really?) that Cole believed the mere sight of them would cause her pain. He paused when his fingers brushed against cold stone that tingled with magic, however, and he pulled away the top layers of fabric to reveal the source of power below.

There, at the bottom of the pile, was the small statue of Fen’harel, Cole’s gift to the Inquisitor after an outing in the mire. The wolf was an inhabitant of her bathing chambers, although she kept the statue facing outwards to protect her modesty. Solas blew out his breath, unaware that he’d been holding it. He picked up the small statue, and ran his fingers along the cool stone.

“This holds memories of me?” he asked.

“You’re the only one who knows he’s there,” Cole explained. “A gift, a guardian. _Bottles of perfume to hide her scent and mask the trail. No reason to give him a show._ But for you, she….” Cole broke off, and his cheeks colored. “That’s something I’m not supposed to talk about either, isn’t it?”

“This was your gift to her, Cole,” Solas replied instead, glossing over the boy’s question. He pressed the stone figure back into the spirit’s hand. “I think she would regret its loss, knowing the effort you made to get it for her.”

“She decided that she’ll turn him around, in the end,” said Cole, cradling the wolf in his arms. “She thinks he cursed her, and she’d rather face him. Nothing bothered her before, but now she sees everything as his fault. She wants to blame him for everything that’s happened, now and before.”

“She would not be wrong to do so,” sighed Solas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long. Had to break it in half, part two wasn't working well. So, yeah, one more chapter after this. Then it's the end. I swear. T__T


	5. Harden Your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inner Circle responds, aka put that pain to good use.
> 
> Thank you, Adenicy, for the very helpful suggestions!! <3

It was two weeks before the Inquisitor returned to Skyhold, and Solas was already well into his “project,” the people of the keep starting to readjust their schedules and patterns around the suddenly subdued demeanor of the Rift mage.

Dorian had sent word for Bull to meet them in the Western Approach, and Solas went out of his way to make sure that the Qunari man could not corner him for questions before he headed out. Of course, Solas knew that his evasion was an answer of its own sort, and Bull was clever enough to put two and two together. In fact, most of his companions also seemed to have figured out what had happened, if not why, and their respect for his desire for privacy was no doubt the result of some misguided conclusion that the Inquisitor had ended it herself.

Well, let them think what they would. By the time the Inquisitor returned, no doubt some of her emotions would have settled. Or perhaps his abandonment would achieve the pretense he’d given and she truly would focus on defeating Corypheus. If the reports coming in from Leliana’s ravens were anything to go by, Remli was doing thorough job of scouring the desert for any lingering Venatori troops. He hoped she found solace in whatever she did, even as he himself found his mind occupied by little else than her.

 

When the weary band of travellers finally did arrive back at the Keep, there was remarkably little fanfare. Solas watched them approach from his perch on the walls, and it took everything within him not to flinch when the Inquisitor caught sight of him and froze. She looked pale beneath her suntan, and he could easily make out the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Then Bull walked between them and ushered the Inquisitor into the building as Dorian flanked her other side. Pavus did pause long enough to glare at him, before escorting the Inquisitor up to her room.

Cole flickered into sight for a moment, the spirit dim and blurry, even to Solas’ keen sight. The boy gave him a baleful glance and disappeared, no doubt heading into the Inquisitor’s chambers to keep her company in her time of grief. For his part, Solas retired to his own quarters, no longer able to face the thought of sitting quietly at his desk, reading tomes of information that got him no closer to his goal, and writing missives for orders he wished he didn’t need carried out. He longed to sink into sleep and wander the Fade, just for a little while. The Inquisitor was not the only one suffering from sleepless nights.

 

Of course, when Solas did finally return to his desk the next morning, he found a thin layer of frost over all of his things. There was little doubt that it had originated from the second floor of the rotunda. Literal bursts of cold air rolled down the stairs and over the rails, upsetting his papers and forming icicles on his scaffolding. No words had been spoken as yet, but subtly was never one of Dorian’s strong suits.

Bull made no direct comments to him, but by the end of the afternoon the entire keep knew. Some made diplomatic gestures: Josephine made tentative, non-pressing inquiries to which he gave bland, unspecific replies. Leliana said nothing, but he could feel the watch doubled upon him, even as his own agents shifted into their more proactive roles. 

Cullen seemed confused but too well-mannered to ask prying questions, trying to start conversations, pausing, giving an embarrassed cough and then mumbling about needing to get back to reports or some such nonsense before shuffling away. This was not an unusual state for the Commander, however, not when it came to the subject of the Inquisitor. (An uncharitable thought, perhaps, but Solas knew the man still had feelings for Remli, and while she was free to pursue the human now that their relationship had ended, the thought of her in the knight’s arms made his blood boil.)

Sera gifted him with a painting of an enormous phalous on the back of his door so that every time he sat at his desk he had to look at it. He’d have to spend some time removing it with magic, although part of him was tempted to just leave it be to show her how little he cared about her practical jokes. In truth, he thought it had less to do with vengeance for the Inquisitor and more to do with being presented with an opportunity to wreak more havoc than usual.

It was difficult to read Blackwall--Thom-- the man was secretive, yes, although with the events of the trial he’d tried to open up a bit more. Solas wasn’t sure what was going on behind that massively bushy beard, but he could feel Ranier’s gaze upon him, and sensed the man’s brain looking for correlations between their situations. Let him wonder. The man had little enough imagination that he would never come close to the truth.

Varric and Cassandra took a more direct, deliberate approach. They tried to confront him while he sat at his desk and he was bent over reports of the Dalish welcoming the former sentinels into their clans. Of course it would be the two of them-- the three of them had traveled together the longest after all, the only companions accompanying the Herald as she wandered the Hinterlands in those early days as they worked to help the people of Haven. It was out of respect for their shared history that he agreed to listen to their accusations, although he gave them little in return.

“It is just so sudden,” cried Cassandra, brows drawn. “Solas, that I think this comes as a surprise to us all-- certainly the Inquisitor did not expect such a thing from you--”

“What Seeker is trying to say is that we expected more from you, Chuckles,” interrupted Varric. The dwarf stood with arms crossed, hips wide, a look of concern on his face. Cassandra kept a more guarded pose, biting her thumb as she watched the elf, expression grim. In a different situation, Solas would have asked them if they were asking as concerned parents for their lovesick ward. He kept silent.

When Varric saw that they were not going to reply, he narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what your game is, but I know people. You’re head over heels for the girl and yet you dump her like a two-bit knock off pulp novel. I’m sure you have your reasons--”

“I do,” cut in Solas, voice clipped. He forced himself to relax, clearing his throat and shuffling papers on his desk to tidy up the mess. Varric slammed his fists on the wood, making the wardstone rattle and blowing several sheets of paper to the floor.

“Then tell her them, dammit!” Varric leaned in as much as he could, given the height of the table. “You don’t have to tell us a damn thing; you’re both consenting adults and what’s between you is private. But she has a right to know!”

Solas leveled his gaze on Varric and returned the dwarf’s stare without flinching. When it became apparent that Solas would not reply, Cassandra cut in.

“Just… talk to her, Solas,” the woman reasoned, pulling Varric away from the desk. “Varric is right-- what you do is not our concern. But you handled it poorly, and the Inquisitor’s state affects all of us. For that, I must urge you to address this before everything we’ve worked for falls apart.”

She took a firm grip on Varric’s shoulder and steered him away, physically moving between the two men so the dwarf couldn’t turn around and start another round of arguing. Solas watched them go, lips pursed, unable to relax until the door was closed and Sera’s gift glistening at him from across the room. He blew out his breath, then stood, closing the books and heading out the door to walk the parapets and clear the air. He could deal with whatever frost accumulation built up in the morning.

He spent a good quarter of an hour simply staring out at the distant mountains, marveling at how familiar they were after all these years. There was some small comfort in that; despite all of changes that happened among his People, the sun still reflected off the peaks of the Frostbacks, and the wind still howled an echo of the song of protection that wrapped around Tarasyl'an Te'las. Out here, his back to the fortress, he could almost forget the sorrow that swelled within.

Amost. He felt Vivienne’s approach before he heard the click of her heels upon on the cold stone walls, that brash, unflinching ripple in the Veil as she made her own path through the world. She carried her own sadness, he knew, but she carried it well, and few would guess that the Iron Lady’s tempered will kept those tender feelings in check.  
He half-expected her to brush past him, as these days she rarely bothered telling him what he’d done to offend her sensibilities, and she was clearly on a mission. The rapid clicks stilled beside him, however, and he half-expected a list of his failings, given how his day had been going. No doubt there was some character flaw someone had forgotten to catalogue.

But Vivienne knew when silence was the best conversation two people could share. She pulled out a silken cloth from the folds of her gown, brushed off the ledge beside him, then rested her arms upon it to share the view with him.

They stood in companionable silence for some time. Had it been any other member of the Inquisitor’s inner circle, he might have worried that she’d come to snoop on what was so important that it had drawn his attentions and affections away from the Inquisitor. 

She’d told him from the start she didn’t approve of him tarnishing the Inquisitor's reputation with their personal relations. 

“You did the right thing, my dear.” She spoke without preamble, because of course he knew what she meant, and he knew why she agreed with his decision. “Our Inquisitor has come a long way since the dusty halls of Haven, and she is destined for great things. We must all do our part to support her.”

And that was the Vivienne he knew. Still, the matter-of-fact way she stated it grated, and the confrontation with Varric and Cassandra had set his nerves on edge. He knew he should not rise to the bait, but he could not bite back a reply to a comment so obviously meant to sting.

“You believe that I broke my relations with the Inquisitor out of respect for her title?” he asked, voice cool. Vivienne smiled her court smile, casually shifting her weight to one hip and crossing her arms.

“My dear Solas, we both of us know that she can do better than an apostate on the run,” replied Vivienne, giving him a minute shrug of her shoulder. “No matter how skilled you are, even you must admit that you have little to offer a woman of her rank. We both know that she will come to recognize this in time, after her heart has healed.”

“Ironic,” he snapped, straightening to look down at her. “Given that the Dalish tend to encourage strong mage bloodlines throughout the clans. One would think such a thing would be an asset, and not a deterrent, no matter my lack of material background.”

“She is no longer Dalish though, is she? Not truly,” asked Vivienne, voice sharp. “She’d a symbol now-- a symbol for the hope that this world can be saved. How long has it been since she stopped being Lavellan and she became ‘our lady’? How many nobles send missives requesting an audience with her when they treat their own elven servants like dogs? With a skilled beautician, a subtle styling of the hair, a blush upon the cheeks and a softening around the eyes, what remains of her Dalish heritage?” She raised an eyebrow, leveling her gaze on him. “From what I understand, you are the one who stripped away the final marks of her clan.”

Solas narrowed his eyes, but it was true. He’d taken the vallaslin away upon the Inquisitor’s request, but at what cost? Would the Dalish understand? Would they believe her when she told them what he’d revealed to her? So many were stuck in their traditions, unwilling to accept the truth behind their misconceptions and beliefs, even if some did believe, there would be far more who did not.

“If you truly thought that you were a good match for her, I think it would take more than a would-be god to keep you apart,” continued Vivienne, softening her tone as Solas turned away. “Solas, my dear, even the sweetest love can turn to poison. You have courage for recognizing it and sacrificing your own happiness before it destroyed you both.” She sighed, lost in her own thoughts. “Love is never easy.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, then gave her a curt nod as he turned to leave. The cool air had helped, and Vivienne’s attempts at comfort, back-handed as they were, mollified him somewhat. Still, he found that work was always the best way to take one’s mind off of things, and for all his lack of enthusiasm in the what he was doing, the work did matter. 

As he headed back towards his desk, he forced himself to think of his efforts to rebuild the fractured pathways between the eluvians. Seeing-- or rather, feeling Vivienne’s effect on the Veil reminded him of conversations he’d held with Dorian and the Tevinter’s comments on folding the Veil in on itself. He pushed open the door to the rotunda, mentally drawing up sigils that might be able to compound the energy within the Fade to force a regrowth of magic in the deadened areas of the crossroads. With the aid of a few of the sentinel mages, they might be able to work in tandem, which would mean--

He stopped, mind blanking as he saw the Inquisitor turn from her spot by his desk.

“We need to talk.”

It was only a matter of time, of course, and he’d known that they would have to speak at some point, but he’d hoped it wouldn’t be so immediate, and that they’d both had a chance to regain some of their composure before discussing it. But what could he say to make her understand? What could he do, to lessen the pain and help her move on?

What was two weeks when he knew that he would mourn the loss of her until his final breath?

“Inquisitor,” he said, forcing himself forward to stand before her. “How may I help you prepare for our final battle?”

She flinched, and there was a very pointed cough from the second floor. Her eyes were red, and her skin was pale despite two weeks traipsing around the burning sands. She’d changed from her travel clothes, and he could smell the perfumes from her bath. He wondered if she’d been dreading this conversation as much as him.

“I’d like to discuss what happened before, Solas.”

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be appropriate at this time, “ he said, trying to soften his voice. Not so much because he didn’t want Dorian to listen in (that was a lost cause; the entire upper floors were unusually quiet). He simply did not want to watch her brave facade crumble, not in the face of so many witnesses. He could save her that indignity, at least. “We must focus on what truly matters.” 

He walked past her to pick up his journal and rifle through the papers on his desk to find the notes Dorian had given him months ago. When he found them, he stood tall once again, and met her in the eye once again. “Harden your heart to a cutting edge, and put that pain to good use against Corypheus.”

 

“It would help me if you could explain why,” she pressed, coming to stand across the desk. He shook his head, breaking eye contact.

“The answers would only lead to more questions, an emotional entanglement that would benefit neither of us,” he said, wishing he’d been able to come up with a scenario that might have lessened the sting, or softened the blow. But the truth would hurt more than a lie, and an omission of truth was the gentlest cruelty he could give her. “The blame is mine, not yours. It was irresponsible and selfish of me. Let that be enough.”

“Will… will you talk to me when we are finished with Coyrpheus?” she asked, and he could hear the flutter of hope, the quavering tremble in that voice. 

He swallowed. In the long run, it would be just another cruelty to let her keep it, another terrible lie to fester within her heart until he abandoned her once again. but he could not bear the thought of breaking her heart yet again. 

He gave her a sad smile.

“If we are both still alive afterward, then I promise you, everything will be made clear,” he replied, and she latched onto that false promise of comfort, her eyes brightening a little. She returned his smile, a timid, watery thing, and he hated himself all the more.

“Let me know if I can be of any more help in planning our final fight.”


End file.
